


Empty Handed

by Idril



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idril/pseuds/Idril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back a changed man and realizes he has nothing to give John Watson but himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Handed

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration comes from Lea Michele's song "Empty Handed". I heard it and thought it would be interesting to have Sherlock come back more broken and humble, but also more sure of himself than ever before. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

If I came to you empty handed

A barren ocean with nothing at all

And if I came to you empty hearted

Searching for pieces after the fall

 

All I've ever known is how to hide a secret

But I'm tired of going on without believing

And love is not illusion, love illuminates the blind

 

If I fell into you, would it be close enough?

If I finally let you in, would you show me what love is?

If I had nothing to give

 

If you came to me empty handed

I'd bring the ocean to bring you home

And if you came to me empty hearted

I'd find the pieces to make you whole

 

Sherlock is a changed man. That much is clear to Mycroft as he debriefs him. He is more serious now, and more determined. Three years away from John has done this to him. He does not hide his emotion anymore when talking about the man. There is a calmness about him; a resolve. Sherlock has accepted that John is something more to him than a friend. Mycroft has accepted that Sherlock is a grown man who can handle his own affairs startlingly well, and perhaps doesn’t need him as much as he once did (though Mycroft still wants to be needed).

Despite knowing that John is in a relationship and that it appears to be serious, Sherlock is determined to see him tonight, though he is not under the illusion that John will be accommodating. He seems to understand that his presence may not be welcome, and to understand that Mycroft pointing this out had been intended to be helpful. He accepted the comment rather gracefully.

His wounds are still healing but he has refused any medication stronger than over-the-counter. There is not even a glint of desire in his eyes when morphine is offered. Even if there were no other signs, that alone signaled a change. Mycroft reluctantly lets his brother go, to meet whatever end is in sight for him. He does not have particularly high hopes of this endeavor, but then again, he has learned to not underestimate his brother’s ability to get what he wants.

*****

John is no longer living at Baker Street. Mycroft had informed Sherlock that John had moved out two months after he left. Mycroft had then had the place packed up and cleaned so that Mrs. Hudson was not deprived of her livelihood. Mycroft could, of course, have just paid for it to be kept empty, but that seemed a waste, and Mrs. Hudson shouldn’t be living alone at her age. It would always be easy enough to bribe whoever was living there to move out, if need be.

Sherlock, of course, has John’s new address. He knows there is a chance that John might not return tonight to this spartan, sad apartment, but he waits in the dark nonetheless. He will wait until John does come home. He has gotten very good at waiting these last three years. And he has gotten very good at not imagining what John does those nights he doesn’t come home.

It had not been as difficult as he thought it would be, making the decision to come here, to change things. Somewhere around the 18-month mark, Sherlock had stopped trying to fool himself. Had realized that that’s what he had been doing all along. Not twelve hours later, he had been captured and tortured and the only thing running through his mind had been JohnJohnJohn I'm not ready yet JohnJohnJohn. After that, the missions took on a different tone. Each death, each apprehension, each dreary, lonely, boring, pathetic day was another step closer to John.

He found that, instead of resolutely ignoring any and all thoughts of the man, once he let them come, he couldn’t stop. He didn't want to stop. He ached to know what John was doing each moment. With embarrassment at his own foolishness, he wondered if John was thinking about him, remembering him. Mycroft told him almost nothing, which left Sherlock's mind free to wander. For the first time in years, he touched himself with more than a biological need to get off. It was with desire and longing, hope and desperation, and no small amount of shame.

He knows he is not a good prospect. He is well aware of what he did to John, and of what he is about to do to him now. It is selfish, and it may even be cruel, but Sherlock has had 18 months of thinking about this moment. It was the fulfillment of the bargain he made to himself. Make it out alive, and you can have John. Of course, he knows that it is, ultimately, up to John, but the man never refused him anything before. John had been in relationships before, and in the end, none of those women could match the draw that Sherlock had on him. He admits to himself, not for the first time, that he had been blind and a fool then. But no more.

Sherlock ends up waiting for less time than he had expected. Mycroft had told him John had reservations at a very high-end restaurant tonight. A special occasion, then. And if there was something to celebrate, many couples did so intimately, as well. Dinner and sex. Sherlock assumed he’d be waiting until morning, when John would come home, wearing the same clothes from the night before, which Sherlock would not analyze for lipstick stains or hastily buttoned buttons.

Yet, it was barely 11:00pm when the sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs caused Sherlock to jolt out of his thoughts. Why is he here so early? Something went wrong. He’s coming up fast. Agitated? Not good. He had no way of leaving, though, even if he wanted to. If he backed out now, he was afraid it would be too easy to ignore. John was already on the stairs. He steeled his nerves. This is it.

There was a pause that seemed to go on for hours. John had clearly stopped outside the door. He had heard the key go into the lock, but then nothing. Sherlock had locked the door behind him after breaking in- force of habit. And he didn’t want John to think someone had broken in. He wasn’t sure if John still carried his gun. In the prolonged silence, Sherlock debated about where he should be. Stand? Sit? Bed or chair? In the end, he decided to stand, in clear line of sight. When John opened the door, he would see Sherlock, alive.

The key turns, the door opens, and John’s eyes instantly meet Sherlock’s.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, a broken sound. Before Sherlock can brace himself, John is there, arms around him, crushing him in an embrace for which Sherlock had neither expected nor hoped. He grabs at John in return, clutches at the familiar-but-not frame, and feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. This was everything he had wanted. He can smell John, can taste him when he breathes in.

“Oh God, it’s true, it was true,” John rasps, his own voice clearly affected by emotions as much as Sherlock. Sherlock pulls back to look at him, and frowns.

“What was true, John?”

“Mycroft. He came to the restaurant, bloody black car and all, walked in himself and pulled me away. He told me everything. You were alive. All this time, you were alive. Then he brought me here.” John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, and none of the anger he had expected to see was there. Instead, it is that same amazement. That familiar look of astonishment. The love he feels for this man almost sends him to his knees. He should be on his knees, begging for forgiveness. What did he ever do to earn this? What could he do that would ever be enough to keep it?

Sherlock gently takes hold of John’s face in both his hands, and kisses him.

John responds immediately, mirroring the position and cradling Sherlock’s head so carefully it causes a new well of emotion to rise within him . The kiss is chaste, just lips, just breathing each other’s air. Sherlock pulls back and rests his forehead against John’s. He keeps his eyes closed, just for a moment. It's too much, overwhelming, to go from having no John for years and years to having him closer than ever before. He is suddenly struck with the fear that this is just a dream. He is still being tortured in some abandoned warehouse, shot up with drugs and hallucinogens, and he has created this just to survive it all. His eyes snap open again, and there is John. Steady. Not a dream.

John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and his eyes narrow, looking at- no, not at his hair but at his head. Looking for injuries. For one specific injury.

“John,” he begins. But John interrupts.

“I know, I won't find anything. It was all fake. You told me that. You said ‘I’m a fake’. Is this what you meant? Did you try to tell me? God, I’m an idiot.” This time John initiates, rocking up onto his toes to meet Sherlock’s stunned lips. No, Sherlock thinks desperately, I’m the idiot.

“John,” he says again. His voice sounds as if he had just smoked a dozen cigarettes- low and rough. John looks up at him again.

“John, everything was for you. Everything I did, everything I said. These last three years. They were all for you.” Sherlock is tired of running. Running from the truth, running from his heart. He is so tired.

“Sherlock,” John tries, but stops, and instead runs his hands over Sherlock’s neck, on top of his coat to brush his shoulders, arms, back up to his face. He is looking at him as though he is precious, and Sherlock can not handle it. He is not the precious one, here. He is a murderer and a liar and an arrogant arsehole who thought he knew everything, but turned out to know almost nothing. Nothing Sherlock can say or do can make up for everything he has put this man though, and he knows it.

“John,” and he grabs his arms to focus the man on his words. “Please. I lied to you. And I hid from you. I hid myself and my motives. I led Moriarty to you because I couldn’t face my own emotions. You were right, you were always right. He just wanted to watch me dance, and I allowed him to come between us because I couldn't set my ego aside and do right by you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, and please, please believe that if there had been a way, I would have taken you with me. I would have given almost anything for you to have been with me.” The almost being John's life. That, he would not risk for any price, not again.

“I know, Sherlock, I know. God, it's been-" John takes a deep breath. "It's been hell, Sherlock. Three years of hell. And I prayed every day for a miracle, one last miracle from you, and now you're here. You're here, in front of me, alive and well, and I..." John looks down at his feet as he trails off, his hands leaving Sherlock's body and dropping to his side.

Sherlock smiles softly, hoping to encourage what John was about to say. He seems to get his bearings again, and continues, voice soft and full of emotion.

"I don't know what I did to get this lucky, Sherlock. Thousands of people, every day, lose someone they love. They pray and bargain and beg to get them back, and they never come back, because they're dead. But you did. You came back from the fucking dead."

"For you, John." They stare at each other for a moment, and Sherlock wills John to understand what he's clumsily trying to say. He's not sure why he can't bring himself to say it outright. I love you. It seems so trite. Three words cannot possibly sum up everything he feels for this man. They cannot possibly both defend and excuse all the mistakes he made in their name. But he wants to try.

John's body is still withdrawn physically, but he is absolutely present in the moment, and Sherlock is so thankful to Mycroft for intervening, because he knows it gave John time to process the shock and allow himself to be present now. He knows Mycroft must have taken the brunt of John's anger, and he just adds it to the list of debts he owes his brother.

"Only you can be clever enough to outsmart death." John huffs a laugh to break the tension, but Sherlock does not want the tension broken. He can feel it between them, and it feels like life and a future and everything.

"Not clever, John. Determined. Everything I did while I was gone was leading to this moment, when I could come back to you. Every choice I made had to pass only one test: Would this return me to John faster? Clever was no longer a consideration." Sherlock never thought, before he met John, that there could be anything better than being clever. He slowly (painfully) learned, though, that cleverness could let him down. The fall had been a clever plan, exceedingly so, and look where it got him.

They stand in silence for a few breaths, just taking in everything that has been said and done in these moments. John seems to understand what it is Sherlock is trying to say to him. John's eyes keep flicking over Sherlock's face, only to settle on his lips. Sherlock wants to know why there is this space between them, when all he really wants to do is hold John until morning. He hears John clear his throat.

"I'm seeing someone, Sherlock," John says, but it's not with any weight. It's more like full disclosure.

"End it," Sherlock replies, voice firm, bringing a hand again to John's face, rubbing his thumb lightly over John's cheekbones, his eyebrows. Mine.

"Okay," John whispers on an exhale, so easy, he didn't even need convincing. Then he is surging up and they are kissing again, and it's not like the first time. It's not chaste and soft. It's grappling hands, and tight arms, and open mouths. John is pushing Sherlock's coat off, and Sherlock is doing the same.  Then John loops his arms under Sherlock's to grab his shoulders from behind, and Sherlock recoils in pain. John looks shocked, hands withdrawing immediately.

"It's my back," Sherlock gasps, not wanting John to think any of this is unwanted. It is very wanted. He had just forgotten about his back, which had been beaten raw a little over 2 days ago, right before Mycroft extracted him. He had refused any pain medication because he wanted to be absolutely present for this conversation, but now he is regretting it. The adrenaline has worn off and he is in a surprising amount of pain. None of that matters, though. He has felt worse pain, much worse, and he does not want John to pull back from this moment. If John sees his injuries, he will revert to 'doctor' and the openness they have now will be gone.

"Just," he breathes, getting control of the pain, "don't touch my back. It's been taken care of, but it's still sore."

"Sherlock, let me see," John demands. But instead, Sherlock kisses him again, whispers between kisses "please, not now" and John is easily led astray.

They sit on the bed, side by side, and continue kissing. The intensity has lessened, though, and Sherlock is somewhat glad. He does not want to rush into anything. This night has a dreamlike quality to it, but tomorrow he's sure reality will set in. He will have to deal with the details of what he's done. See, up close, the way John's life has changed and flowed without him in it. John may even be angry with him, come morning. He wants to face all that, come through it on the other side, before he and John change the nature of their relationship. Because if they are together tonight, and John decides tomorrow that it's just not worth the risk (which Sherlock would not fault him for), Sherlock will be ruined.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and leans back to look at John, who has followed his lips a few inches before realizing that Sherlock is trying to speak.

"John, I think we should stop." His breath is coming fast, and he is aroused, but he knows this is the right thing.

John takes a deep breath, and nods, leaning back himself.

"I don't want to do anything you might regret tomorrow. And I don't want this to be something that either of us regrets, John."

"Never. Never with you. I only regret the time we lost. You have to know that, Sherlock. I blamed myself. If I had told you, before. If I had said something, maybe-"

"It would not have made a difference. I wasn't ready to hear it, then, John. I knew that I felt something for you, but I refused to acknowledge it. I thought that it was just an illusion. Just a play of chemicals on my brain, reinforced pathways. I know, now, that I had been keeping myself a secret from you on purpose, out of fear. I couldn't see what was right in front of me. Or rather, I could see it, but I chose to be blind."

"Sherlock." John is breathing hard, emotional again. John doesn't like to deal with emotions, tries to repress them. He is trying now, but not very hard, and Sherlock can see through it. He takes John's hand in his. He has never held someone's hand in this manner, as a lover, and it feels very intimate to him.

"John Watson," he begins, feeling like he has to get this moment right, "I love you. I am irrevocably in love with you. I have no job, no home, no reputation. I lied to you, I left you, and I have absolutely nothing to offer you except those words. They are the most true words I have ever spoken. I love you."

Sherlock kisses John again, a seal on his words, and this time he feels the wetness from John's tears on his own face. He has made John cry, but it seems to be fine, because John is kissing him back desperately, turning more fully on the bed to face him.

"I love you," John says, tearfully between kisses. "My life is a mess, Sherlock, I am a complete mess, I fell to pieces without you, but God I love you. It feels like I have always loved you."

They recline onto the small bed, and Sherlock could care less about his back, doesn't even feel any pain as he rolls onto it, and pulls John's body half on top of his. They continue kissing, but it slows naturally until they are simply breathing each other's air, gasping breaths into each other's mouths. They each feel like they can breathe, are actually taking in oxygen, for the first time in years. John relaxes against Sherlock, kisses him a few times, closed mouth again, and they just breathe.

 *****

They lay together for the rest of the night, talking softly about what life had been like without the other. It becomes clear that they are both pieces of what they used to be. Sherlock's leaving had fractured the both of them and left jagged edges. They are both coming to this empty-handed, but empty hands are easier to hold. And neither of them will ever let go again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
